The day I learned I had MS was a frightening, confusing, awful day. I remember feeling such a wide range of emotions. But looking back on that day now, it makes me so incredibly sad. And not for reasons you may think. Don’t get me wrong, finding out I had MS made me feel a lot of things, but sad wasn’t one of them. At least not that particular day. It makes me sad now though, after living through the last year, because I realize things could have been so different.

My diagnosis took a very long-time to sink in, and I am partly to blame for that. I got the news from my neurologist in early 2022, and the weeks following were a whirlwind. I was learning about the disease, creating a medical gameplan, working with insurance on who would pay for what, and focusing on getting my current symptoms under control. I also kept myself busy with work, not only to stay on top of my to-do list and meet deadlines but also to prevent too much idle time for my brain. I didn’t want to be consumed with the “what ifs?” I thought it was a good thing to keep myself busy and try not to think about it. Was I upset? Yes. Was I afraid? Absolutely. Was I mad? You bet. But I convinced myself that dealing with the really heavy stuff later would be best. And waiting until later was easy since I had other things to focus on.

There is no right or wrong way to process life-changing news, but I really wish I had done things differently. I should have taken time to just sit down and let it sink in. I wish I had put everything else aside and given my emotions the chance they needed to break through, instead of keeping them in check. The only emotion I allowed at the time was crying, and brother, I let that one flow freely. It consumed me. I cried at everything, all the time. But it served no purpose, and all it did was keep me exhausted and with a constant headache. It never felt like one of those “good” cries, that seems to come at the end of something and you feel somewhat better after it. Almost like an ending to the pain and the beginning of something new. I didn’t have that kind of crying about my diagnosis for a long time. Looking back on that time now, I should have gotten away for a bit. Alone, with my husband, or with my family, it didn’t matter. A change of scenery after my diagnosis would have been good for me. For all of us, actually.

Most of all though, I wish I had pressed pause on my job and stepped away, even for just a few days. 20+ years afforded me quite a bit of available vacation time. But I didn’t want to take any time off, afraid it would draw unwanted attention. I was trying my best to fly under the radar considering everything happening internally at the office, and I was still hopeful the rumors weren’t true that I might be at risk of losing my job. So, I skipped the time off and did what I had always done. I put the needs of the company ahead of my own. My diagnosis, my unknown future, the sale of the company, the shift in management, and the loss of my boss, didn’t change my work ethic. I was still working hard, going above and beyond, meticulous in my work, and producing it in the less-than-ideal time frames I was given. Why? Because it is who I am. I want to work hard, be dependable, and provide for others. I don’t want to be the center of attention, yet I do want people to recognize and appreciate what I do. And looking back on it now, I realize what a mistake that was. What a waste of time it was that I was working for the good of the company because the company sure as hell wasn’t working for the good of me. If I had only known then what I know now, I would have cashed in on some vacation time, packed a bag, and spent time focusing on what was far more important. Me.

It had been a few weeks since my diagnosis reveal to my employer, and things seemed to be returning to normal. I focused on work, started preparing for the start of the school year that was coming in a few weeks, continued to learn about my condition and everything that came along with it, and was thankful the symptoms from my recent flare-up that led to my MS diagnosis had become more manageable. All was good until my son decided to bring a friend home one Friday afternoon. And by a friend, I mean a head cold (and yes, it was just a cold – he had the covid brain swab to prove it). For my son, it was a quick visit, with little to no inconvenience, other than trouble sleeping for a couple of nights due to a stuffy nose. I went to extreme lengths to try and kill the germs on everything he touched and prevent it from spreading, but my attempts were futile, and my daughter and I had it next (and yes, it was still a cold – we had our brains swabbed as well). Thankfully, she bounced back quickly, as kids normally do, but my immune system screamed, “Hey guys! Hold my beer and watch this!” My cold hung around for days, and when it got bored, it upgraded to an upper respiratory infection (yep, had another brain swab to confirm), but that still wasn’t good enough, because it decided to upgrade further into bronchitis (the swab lady was my friend at this point). Thank you, compromised immune system. A simple, summer cold that I used to fight off easily felt like it was going to kill me. Yet again, had I taken some time off work and actually rested, it might have been easier, but there lies one of the problems with remote work. It’s too easy to work from home and it is hard to tell yourself not to. Well, at least it is for me. I can do my work via laptop with primarily email communication, so I could still work even though I looked homeless, smelled like my teenage son, and sounded like I was chain-smoking Camels all day. (I don’t know how my husband could keep his hands off me. I was sexy as hell). But I didn’t miss a beat with work, which I thought would be appreciated (I’m currently rolling my eyes so hard I can see my brain). Anyway, I finally started to improve, my husband helped tremendously with taking care of the kids and keeping the house clean keeping the kids alive, and July ended with me finally feeling better (and bathing).

August began, and I hit the ground running since it tends to be one of my busiest work seasons. It had been almost 2 months since I had spoken to management about my diagnosis, and everything seemed to be fine, and business was moving along as expected. What I didn’t realize at the time, was management had also hit the ground running, but their objective was far different than mine. In less than a week, for the first time in 21 years with the company, I would be called into Human Resources. I was summoned via an email calendar invitation late on a Friday afternoon, for the following Tuesday, with no explanation, even after inquiring about the subject to be discussed from two separate managers. I had spent weeks hoping, praying, and thinking everything would be okay, but once I read that message, I knew. The end game was coming.

When your record is spotless, your work performance is unmatched, your coworkers value you, and your vendors love working with you, it takes a special kind of evil for someone to see you only as an extension of someone else they hate, envy, and pushed away. And when hate is that strong, no amount of fighting will work. That’s something I wish I had realized, because I fought. And the fight broke me. Mentally, physically, and emotionally. And it not only hurt me, but it hurt those that I love. In the coming months, I would be betrayed and mistreated in ways I would have never expected. Time has helped me heal, but I will never understand. I saw firsthand how people can portray honesty, faithfulness, and integrity to the world, but embody ignorance, resentment, and self-serving interests behind closed doors.

Jekyll and Hyde at its finest.